I 'll instantly to bed,
For I am weary.--I am to bespeak
A husband for you.
DUCHESS. For me, sir! Pray, who is 't?
FERDINAND. The great Count Malatesti.
DUCHESS. Fie upon him!
A count! He 's a mere stick of sugar-candy;
You may look quite through him. When I choose
A husband, I will marry for your honour.
FERDINAND. You shall do well in 't.--How is 't, worthy Antonio?
DUCHESS. But, sir, I am to have private conference with you
About a scandalous report is spread
Touching mine honour.
FERDINAND. Let me be ever deaf to 't:
One of Pasquil's paper-bullets,<74> court-calumny,
A pestilent air, which princes' palaces
Are seldom purg'd of. Yet, say that it were true,
I pour it in your bosom, my fix'd love
Would strongly excuse, extenuate, nay, deny
Faults, were they apparent in you. Go, be safe
In your own innocency.
DUCHESS. [Aside.] O bless'd comfort!
This deadly air is purg'd.
Exeunt [DUCHESS, ANTONIO, DELIO, and Attendants.]
FERDINAND. Her guilt treads on
Hot-burning coulters.
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